It was colder than she would have preferred. Having recently arrived from a tropical environment, the redhead had become accustomed to the harsh beating rays of sun, even though she’d spent more than ten of her years braving the arctic coldness of New York. Tugging her knee length coat tighter around her tall, slender frame, Raisie gathered the few stacks of bursting manila folders from the passenger seat of her car and walked with a familiar clink of stiletto heels toward the opening brick arch of Northpoint’s 4th precinct. The overcast and particularly unpleasantly cool day marked her third week in the supposedly sunny city of Northpoint, Maine, and while she had originally fled her favorite city in order to reevaluate her life and deal with her idiosyncrasies – particularly her addictive personality – it hadn’t taken her long to seek out the distraction of employment. It had been remarkably good timing on her part, accepting and stepping quickly into the position of Assistant District Attorney for Northpoint’s Homicide unit after a rather speedy transfer of their previous ADA. Raisie had accepted the opportunity as just that, and didn’t bother wasting anyone’s time with frivolous questions or water cooler gossip. She was far too antisocial for that.
Taking the elevator up to the third floor, Raisie was surprised at just how busy the small precinct seemed to be. Notably it was nothing compared to New York, but the open plan room she was currently standing in the middle of the doorway of was bustling with men and women in pantsuits, guns holstered at hips and badges either hung around necks on silver chains or clipped to belts. Desks centered the room in pairs, sturdy oak structures that housed an array of picture frames, littered paperwork and old food wrappings. While she was impressed with the size of the department, Raisie was irritably unimpressed with the fact that she’d been left standing in the open archway, thin but deceivingly strong arms piled with spilling files. Realizing quickly that no one was going to offer to lighten her load, she approached the nearest occupied desk, where a tall burly man sat hunched over something in front of him. His hair was an odd mix of blonde and brown, forming a sort of mousey brown color. It dusted the top of his head and crept down the sides of his jaw to wrap around his chin and upper lip in an overgrown sort of five o’clock shadow. Raisie would hate to admit that he was rather aesthetically pleasing.
The stack hit the solid desk with a thwack and the fiery redhead raised a manicured brow as she awaited the attention of the detective before her. When she finally held his piercing blue gaze, she held out a barely welcoming hand and didn’t bother straining for a smile. Her hair sat dead straight and barely reaching her shoulders in a short, wild read bob that framed her long sun kissed face. Her eyes were large and doe round, a striking cerulean blue that frowned with a sort of frustration and trouble. “I’m your new ADA.” With hand still outstretched, she cocked another brow. “Raisie Millen. The DA wanted me to bring these over for a few signatures from a,” she paused to look down at the top folder. Technically, she should have memorized the name in an effort to appear more prepared. “Detective Caulfield.” She finished, voice gravely and to the point. The redhead left no room for misinterpretation; it was her job after all. “Where might I find them?”